


Dust and Bones

by Theyumenoinu



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Angst, Captivity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forced Combat, God complexes, Hurt Kirk, Hurt Spock, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Protective Jim, Protective Spock, Slavery, Survival, T'hy'la, Violence, mental rape (not between major characters)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 01:10:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13671138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyumenoinu/pseuds/Theyumenoinu
Summary: Investigating a distress call leads to Jim and Spock being taken by an unknown alien race, and forced to participate in a violent tournament with several other species. The award: saving the Human race from extinction.





	Dust and Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or any of its characters.
> 
> Updates: sporadically

 

 

**Dust and Bones**

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter One**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jim slits his eyes open to absolute darkness. A swell of fear overcoming him at the possibility of being blind, and reaching his hand out automatically in desperate need of sensory input. The coarse texture of sand beneath the pads of his fingers instantly informing him that he’s in a desert climate; though, where exactly remains a mystery. His mind sifting through his memories with urgency, scrambling to piece together the events which led him here.

He vaguely recalls an explosion rocking the _Enterprise_ , a disembodied voice, and an agreement to an ultimatum. The details of it, however, are still foggy as he fights for consciousness. An oppressive heat sapping what precious energy he’s recovered as his body shivers in desperate attempt to cool down. And noting, rather belatedly, the unbearable dryness to his mouth and throat; his chapped lips stinging when he involuntarily swipes his tongue over them.

“Hel—” Jim releases a small, raspy cough and tries again. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

His voice seems to echo softly. Adding enclosure to his ever growing list of concerns before something shifts noisily from somewhere nearby.

“I am here, Captain,” a familiar voice says, and Jim jerks slightly at the unexpected close proximity.  

“And where would that be, exactly?” Jim asks, striving to move his arms beneath him, using great effort to bring himself into an upright position. Taking stock of the ache along his rib cage and the painful pounding of his pulse against his temples.

He hears Spock inhale deeply, as though steeling himself for something unpleasant.

“Unclear. However, I have come to learn we are being held within a solitary six by nine cell. The walls are made from an unidentified metal alloy which holds a greater resistance against beings with superior strength.”

Jim would take some offense to that, if not for their current situation.

“And beneath the sand is what I’ve determined to be a deep surface layer of caliche,” Spock continues. “A calcium carbonate with a toughness similar to concrete.”

Jim huffs weakly in understanding. “So, in other words, we’re trapped.”

“Affirmative.”

“And being cooked alive inside a metal box?” Jim tacks on, battling the insistent tug to return to sleep.

“I do not believe so. There are small vents along the ceiling—restricting daylight but not airflow—and the internal temperature is not higher than that of…” he trails off. “It is, indeed, a temperature humans will find uncomfortable, but it shouldn’t prove lethal.”

“Unless?” Jim presses, sensing Spock’s omission.

Spock doesn’t respond immediately, allowing a few seconds to pass in tense silence. His hesitance to answer only serving to unsettle Jim more.

“Unless you are not given water soon,” Spock admits at length.

Jim swallows thickly at that, hyper-aware of his desperate thirst. “There’s no water in here?” he returns, edging on panic. Bringing the cuff of his sleeve to wipe the perspiration gathering along his brow.

“No,” Spock confirms with a remarkably gentle tone. “Although, I am certain our captives intend to keep us alive. We should not be denied it for much longer.”

“Much longer?” Jim parrots. “How long has it been already?”

“By my time-sense, it’s been seven-point-three hours,” Spock answers, precise to a fault. “I regained consciousness two-point-five hours ago, and upon waking, discovered our phasers and communicators had been confiscated.”

Jim snorts. “Figures,” he says, swaying slightly, and reaches to steady himself—only to flinch away when white-hot pain lances through the palm of his hand as it brushes scorching metal. “Shit!”

Curling the injury to his chest, Jim hisses another curse as he tentatively probes the tender flesh. The skin pulling taut as the burn sets deep. Possibly second degree, Jim thinks, judging by the blisters.

“Please permit me to examine your injury,” Spock requests, suddenly beside him. Startling Jim when a hand clasping onto his wrist, tugging it immediately towards him.

“It’s fine,” he protests. “I’ve had worse.”

“Indeed,” Spock agrees, but stubbornly maintains his grip. “The burn appears to be significant. We shouldn’t risk infection by leaving it unbound.”

Jim chuckles despite himself, feeling Spock’s hand fall away before a ripping noise punctuates the silence.

“How can you even tell?” Jim questions. “You can’t possibly be able to see anything in here.”

A piece of material tickles the burnt skin as it’s delicately laid across his palm, causing Jim to wince at the sudden flare of pain the touch elicits. The Vulcan careful not to initiate skin-to-skin contact again, despite Jim’s inability to hold his hand steady.

“Vulcans have keener night vision than Humans,” Spock explains, dutifully wrapping Jim’s burn in what he assumes to be a strip torn from Spock’s tunic. “ _Vulcan_ has—” he abruptly cuts off, “— _had_ no moons; therefore, it was only natural we adapted to the night.”

Jim doesn’t press Spock on his unusual behavior, nor his sudden slips about his deceased homeworld. The loss still evidently fresh, even after a year, and Jim can hardly begrudge him the comforting familiarity the climate evokes.

“Oh,” he says, instead, before a thought strikes him. “Didn’t you touch the walls earlier? Are you hurt?”

There’s a whisper of sand sliding over the split-grain leather of Spock’s boots as the Vulcan moves to put a comfortable distance between them. “I am not,” he assures. “The metal was cooler hours earlier, so it is inferable this planet has a time of day where temperatures rise considerably.”

Jim hums, somewhat unsettled by the fact.

“What do you think they want with us?” he wonders, bringing his trembling hand to rest on his leg.

“I cannot be certain, Captain,” Spock says, unhelpfully. “But I do have some theories.”

Grasping at the offered distraction from the sting of his injury, Jim accepts with a mirthless chuckle, “Lay them on me, Mr. Spock.”

“Ransom,” he starts. “As we are two of Starfleet’s most valuable officers, they may have lured us with that intent.”

“But wasn’t the distress beacon in an unusual section of uncharted space?” Jim points out. “They couldn’t have betted on us checking into it when any Federation ship might’ve happened upon it.”

“Yes,” Spock agrees. “Which brings me to my second theory.”

Jim ventures a guess. “Slavers?”   

“It is likely.”

“Shit.” Jim heaves a sigh. “I hardly remember what happened.”

Any reply Spock has is curtailed when a single red light slices through the darkness. Bathing their surroundings in its crimson glow, and revealing to Jim, at last, the sandy floor of their cramped cell and the nondescript walls which box them in entirely. In the farthest corner, a round seat that Jim instantly identifies as a toilet—the only necessity they’ve apparently been given.

A buzzer sounds, inordinately loud, causing Jim to throw up his hands to shield his ears. The light flashing to a cool green as the wall beneath it commences sliding open, permitting sunlight to flood inward.

Jim blinks against the blinding rays, biting back a pained sound as his eyes battle to adjust. The throbbing in his skull burgeoning into a sharp ache while he scrambles to his feet; sensing Spock at his side not seconds after.

Horizontal bars reaching across the threshold prevent their leave, but hardly obstruct the sight of the humanoid being standing dignified on the opposite side. A caress of ethereal daylight bringing shine to the dark hues of her hair, which cascades over her shoulders in loose ringlets down a flowing white and gold gown. The design of the silver headpiece wrapped around her forehead curling beneath her eyes to accent their coral hues.

If it wasn’t for the large, pointed ears extending a foot from her head, Jim thinks, he would’ve mistaken her for an angel.

“Hello,” she greets, voice smooth and gentle. “I am Ayulin; your team’s handler.”

“Our _handler_?” Jim repeats, brows creasing. “I don’t understand. A team for what?”

She smiles genially. “For the tournament,” Ayulin says as though it were explanation enough.

Spock speaks up, shuffling nearer. Asking a question in his native tongue that causes Jim to shoot him a quizzical look.

Her smile doesn’t falter as she replies, “All will be understood soon, young ones,” and walks away, then, with a gracefulness Jim hasn’t seen. Practically gliding; the train of her gown leaving a groove in the sand in her wake.

“Hey!” Jim calls after her as she vanishes from sight, stepping towards the bars, but halting at the edge of shadow provided by the roof of their cell. Cautious not to venture farther; the painful throb emanating from his hand serving as a reminder. “ _Dammit_ ,” he curses emphatically.

Turning an accusatory glare at Spock, Jim snaps, “What did you say to her?”

A brow arches at Jim’s tone. “You didn’t understand?”

“Why would I?” Jim scoffs. “I’m hardly a linguist.”

Spock cocks his head slightly, a spark of curiosity alighting his dark gaze. “You seemed comprehensive while she was speaking.”

“Of course I was; everything she said had been in English,” Jim says, making a wild gesture in the air.  

The Vulcan blinks in an expression akin to surprise. “Fascinating.”

“What is?” Jim asks, rubbing fingers against his temples.

“Captain,” Spock starts, refusing to drop formalities, even in such dire circumstances. “From my perspective, Ayulin was speaking in Vulcan.”

“What?” He huffs a laugh. “That’s impossible. You can’t be serious.”

“I am hardly anything else,” Spock coolly returns, joining Jim at the bars; his gaze roaming over what lies just beyond. “It is, indeed, interesting for a being to have the ability to converse in two languages simultaneously, and have neither of us aware.”

“It could be some kind of trick?” Jim suggests, following Spock’s focused line of sight to a seemingly endless expanse of desert.

The flat landscape stretches for miles until it’s split by a wall of plateaus, looming menacingly on the horizon. Breaking into the sky awash with hues of rose and waves of red-tinted stratocumulus clouds, which almost resemble the swirled patterns of the russet sands below, dotted randomly by brush.

Yet, what catches Jim’s attention—more than the formidable terrain—are several other metal cells spaced an equal distance apart and forming a wide ring around a brushless plain. Jim can barely make out movement from a few that face their direction.

“I do not possess enough information to determine if that is, indeed, the case.”

Jim startles slightly, lost to the whirlwind of his thoughts long enough to forget the question he posed. “What about this?” Jim nods towards the cells opposite them. “Still think it’s slavers? Or something worse?”

He catches the turn of Spock’s head out of the corner of his eye, feeling the intangible weight of his friend’s stare upon him. “I will not let you come to harm, Captain.”

“You shouldn’t be promising anything,” he protests, battling rising nausea. “I should be the one doing that, Spock.”

“On the contrary,” Spock argues. “As captain, you are indisp—”

“ _As captain_ , it’s my duty to make sure my crewmen are safe,” Jim cuts in sharply. “And I don’t even know if they are.”

Spock shifts beside him. For once, seemingly, at a loss on how to respond.

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

 

Silence stretches for an indefinite amount of time, forcing Jim to pace the confined space with nervous energy. His thoughts straying from his own endangerment to that of his crew; second-guessing his decisions. Which, ultimately, does nothing more than drive home the sense of inadequacy and the fact that hardly four months into his captaincy, he’s already placed the entire _Enterprise_ in jeopardy.

“Jim.”

The informal address halts Jim in his tracks. Tossing a look over his shoulder at his friend, who’s barely budged from the barred exit. Judging by his hard expression that something isn’t right.

“What—?”

“Welcome, young ones,” a deep voice rings out, impressively loud, as if spoken through a microphone. It causes Jim to abandon the hole he’s wearing in the ground, stumbling with shaky legs back to Spock. Beholding the sight of another celestial-like creature standing in the center; clad in similar attire to Ayulin.

“I am Leox,” their apparent host says jovially. “It is such an honor to have you all here. We have been waiting quite some time for this day.”

“Still hearing Vulcan?” Jim mutters, glancing sidelong at Spock, who regards him with a curt nod before the host commands demands their attention again.

“You all bravely sacrificed yourselves for the sake of your people aboard your ships,” Leox continues with a wide extension of his arms. “And that will remain your purpose throughout this tournament. For each of you represents them, and if you refuse to participate or fail to win in combat, they will perish alongside you.”

Jim’s heart nearly stutters to a stop. The idea of his crew dead carving a hollow space in his chest.

Another voice, foreign and harsher in its tone, feathers across the ring from some unseen place. Leox instantly answering their obvious inquiry with little hesitation. “You will advance as a team, but will fight one-on-one; receiving victory when both opponents are either incapacitated or dead.”

Rotating to face their cell, Leox presses on. “For each round won, you will be given water, food, and necessities to ensure survival until the next.” Leox steeples his hands. “The overall winner will have their entire species granted safe passage from annihilation for another million years, and will be awarded the choice of which planet will face their next extinction.”

“Spock—” Jim whispers. Breathing, suddenly, a difficult task. Absorbing the information with dawning horror. “They can’t do this.”

Jim notes, belatedly, that Spock has stepped closer, hovering mere centimeters away. The weight of his hand against Jim’s arm brief, offering a small token of comfort. “Unfortunately, it seems they can.”

“What do we do?” Jim asks as Leox raises his hands skyward, announcing with unbridled glee:

“Let the tournament begin!”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated.


End file.
